My first memory of London is rain—

from inside Heathrow

cold air coming in every time

someone enters the terminal

doors opening like page flaps

this morning, among the glow

of elec­tric lights and the cartography

of dis­tance, I think about the birds not

here as much as birds outside on gray

con­crete, as gray as fraying edging of leaves

speck­led like dia­monds. Every­thing is water

widen­ing into the map. I never carry maps

opening into the chest of a new city

but walk until I remem­ber the path

of trees. London dis­solves inside me

like the smell of rain foliage,

a lan­guage mar­bling the body—

sus­pen­sion, then grounding.